


Weekend

by nobodyhere



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, F/F, M/M, Swearing, Weed, angsty murphamy, based off of the movie "weekend", bellamy's insecure & just wants happiness, brief mention of rape, implied sex, murphy's an artist, sad ending sorry, slightly ooc murphy & bellamy, weekend!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 11:48:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6752692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nobodyhere/pseuds/nobodyhere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy and Murphy try to turn a one-night-stand into something more intricate and complex, but sometimes things get sealed in concrete before they even have the chance to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Weekend

**Author's Note:**

> hey hey, this is really exciting!! so this is an adaptation of the movie "Weekend," therefore the plot & some of the dialogue is not mine, but belongs to the movie creator. the movie is on netflix if you wanna watch it (bc it's very good). i changed some of it to make it more murphamy, but again, the plot does not belong to me.

The bath water is cold by now. Bellamy has been shriveling inside the tub for over an hour, breathing quietly, watching the way the soap melts into the water when he stays still for long enough. He doesn’t want to ever leave this tub. Running his hand over his face and noting how scruffy and stubbly he’s become, Bellamy leans back far enough until he simply sinks under the water. Maybe he’ll drown, he thinks. Maybe he’ll just slip away into the water, like the soap, if he stays real still.

Bellamy cannot remember the last time he cared enough to worry about what shoes he’s wearing. But here he is, sitting on the edge of his unmade bed, the waistband of his too-tight jeans pressing into his stomach, debating whether or not he should wear his white Nikes, or … well, that’s all he’s got really. Unless he wants to wear his decade-old boots with half of the rubber sole falling off. He decides to go with the white Nikes. It is just a house party after all. With people he either doesn’t really know or people he doesn’t need to impress. They’re all just people. Bellamy flops back onto the bed. God, he could really use a joint.

The house party is exactly what Bellamy expected. They’re at that age where they’re too old for loud, head-pounding parties with too much shitty alcohol and even shittier judgement, but they’re too young for dinner parties with red wine and empty gossip about their children. Bellamy walks through the foyer only to be stopped by a well-known face. He automatically grins, “Hey Clarke.”  
“Bellamy! You made it!” She greets him with a shot glass full of tequila and a wide, welcoming smile. “Here, take this. You look like you need it.” She hands him the glass while pulling him into the living room where the rest of the people were sitting in a circle. Bellamy stumbles a bit as he swallows the tequila and cringes as his throat liquefies at the burn. As soon as he finishes the shot, Clarke’s right back next to him shoving a lukewarm beer into his hand.  
“You’re just in time to help plan Jasper’s party,” she giggles, clearly having taken a shot or two of her own. The group explodes into laughter over something Jasper said right as Clarke yanks him down to sit next to her on the couch.  
“Strippers are a good idea! Guys,” Jasper whines. “Stop laughing!”  
“No man, it’s kinda stupid and, like, cliche.”  
“Are you stupid? It’s, like, a tradition to have strippers!”  
“Where the hell is it a tradition? I didn’t come from whatever redneck town _you_ grew up in, but-”  
“Dude, what the fuck?”  
Bellamy laughs a bit at their mindless banter and silently accepts the plate of food Raven, the host, shoves into his hands. “Yo, Bellamy!” Monty calls right as Bellamy shovels a whole forkful of spaghetti into his mouth. “You want a stripper, don’t you?”  
The circle laughs; Jasper’s high-pitched giggling audible above the rest. Bellamy swallows hastily.  
“Um, I don’t really care for, um, a stripper really,” he mumbles. Clarke snickers into his ear and throws an arm over his shoulders. “Nah, he really wants a stripper,” she assures the group sarcastically, and they go back to deciding whether or not an adult bouncy house actually exists, never mind decently priced. Bellamy listens to the conversation, laughing at the right parts and commenting whenever Monty and Jasper went a little overboard, but he mostly eats pasta and wonders whether or not there’s more tequila.

Bellamy gratefully takes the blunt from Lincoln, a couple hours later when the food has all disappeared and everyone is pleasantly buzzed, thanks to Monty and Jasper’s never-ending stash of really fucking good weed. Clarke is in the middle of recounting the time when she, Bellamy, Raven, and a big bag of marijuana got pulled over by the police . “Oh my god, I was about to shove that fucking bag up my vag,” she snorts. “I was sweating and babbling to the police officer like a lunatic, and this asshole over here,” she ropes an arm around Bellamy’s neck. “This asshole thinks it’s absolutely _hilarious_ and cannot stop laughing!”  
Bellamy laughs now, shoving Clarke’s arm off of him.  
“Oh! And then Raven sees me freaking out and decides that it’s a good idea to fucking speed off. She literally slams her foot on the gas and zoomed out while the cop was talking to us about our license, oh my GOD!” Clarke busts out laughing and falls onto Bellamy’s side as the rest start to tease Raven. Bellamy nods, “It’s true!” He smiles patronizingly at Raven. “It’s true.”

“Hey, Bellamy, wait.” It’s well into the night now, and Bellamy is about to step out the door when Clarke stops him. “You are coming on Sunday, right?”  
Bellamy stares at her for a moment. “Of course I’m coming Clarke! I mean, she’s my goddaughter!” He smiles softly as Clarke lets out a tiny laugh.  
“Hey, I’m just making sure. I honestly couldn’t pull it off without you man, it really means a lot that you’re coming. For both Lexa and me.”  
“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Bellamy repeats. “I’ve gotten her the most adorable little present too.”  
“Oh, she’ll be even more excited than she already is!” Clarke exclaims, her eyes lighting up. “We don’t get to see you a lot anymore, and it’ll be nice, y’know? It’ll be nice to have you around.”  
“God, I know. It’s nice to be around, but,” Bellamy exhales tiredly. “I got promoted at work and it’s so hard to just go out and relax.” Bellamy runs his hands through his hair. “And I wish I could stay longer, but, I’m really stoned and there’s work early tomorrow-”  
“Yeah, I know,” Clarke cuts him off, smiling sadly at him. “Be careful on your way back, ok?” She steps in and embraces him tightly. Bellamy hugs her back quickly, says goodbye one last time, and steps out into the night that is so vibrant and alive, and it pulls Bellamy into the crowd, and he’s gone.

Oh god, this was not Bellamy’s best decision. Was it even a decision? It seemed like he wasn’t in control of his body, like his legs walked him off the subway when he wasn’t anywhere close to his apartment, and down the street heavy with people full of excitement, despair, and drugs. His legs carried him through an all-too familiar sidewalk into an unfortunately familiar building. As soon as he steps through the doorway and hears the heart thumping music and smells the utterly human scent of sweat and copper, Bellamy’s entire body turns to jelly. He melts into the dark, dark corner, shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, and begins to silently observe the gay mess of the club that is The City of Light. It’s mostly men, like usual. Their spinning, glittery forms meld with the flashing lights and Bellamy is fascinated. He can’t stop watching them interact, like a little child watching fish in a bowl. They kiss and laugh and drink and moan, and Bellamy wants so badly to join in. His body aches to move with them; the music pounds into his brain, and after about an hour and a couple of alarmingly-colored drinks, he begins to let the music control him. In a shuffle-y, head bobbing dance, Bellamy tries to take a sip of his drink, only to get ice and watered-down alcohol. When he turns around to put the glass on a table, he finds a pair of sharp eyes staring, no, cutting right through him. Bellamy freezes for a moment, but recovers enough to not drop his glass on the floor. He glances back at those eyes, and starts to drink in the person who’s attached to them. It is a man, pale and arrogant, with shiny brown hair and sharp features that pin Bellamy in one spot and rip the breath right out of his throat. The man smirks, and with one last stare over Bellamy’s entire body, he turns away and into the bathrooms, almost daring Bellamy to follow. And of course, Bellamy does. The club’s bathroom is stale and nasty, but he is drunk and the man in beautiful. The rest of Bellamy’s time in The City of Light is blurry and is accentuated by the pale skin of the man’s neck, his fingers gripping through Bellamy’s curly hair, and a rough whisper of “Your place or mine?” And then the rest just slips away in Bellamy’s mind, like soap in scalding hot, hot, hot water.

Bellamy jumps slightly at the piercing beep of the coffee maker signalling that it’s done. He lets out a rough sigh, and runs his hand over his face and starts to pour two cups. One for him, and one for the man who was still laying naked on his gross, sticky bed. Bellamy wasn’t in a much better state, considering he was only in his underwear and an inside out shirt, holding two burning hot mugs and trying to open his bedroom door at the same time. “Fuck,” he whispers harshly as coffee sloshes onto his hand and onto the floor.  
“Ooh, did you make coffee?” The man’s voice is shockingly vibrant and awake compared to the pale walls and quiet edges of Bellamy’s apartment.  
“Um, yeah, I did. Just,” Bellamy winces as he accidentally steps in the spilt coffee. “Can you open the door?”  
There’s the _thud thud_ of someone getting out of bed and then the door creaks open to reveal the man, wearing absolutely nothing but an expectant grin.  
“Awesome, I really needed a cup,” he says and gingerly takes the mug from Bellamy, proceeding to crawl back onto the bed. Bellamy glances uncertainly back to the kitchen but the man’s voice stops him.  
“What time do you start work?” he asks.  
“Um, ten o’clock,” Bellamy replies, taking a small sip and subsequently burning his tongue. The man twists around to peer at the clock, which read 8:15.  
“Ah, then we have enough time,” the pale man proclaims and pats the spot next to him. “So get back into bed.”  
Bellamy hesitates for a second, but decides to sit, and the man pulls the blankets around himself in his nude glory. _Shame_ , Bellamy thinks to himself. _The view wasn’t all that bad_. They sit there for a little bit in silence, drinking the weak coffee and staring into space. Bellamy keeps glancing over at the man, waiting for him to leave suddenly, but he just sips from the mug and runs his hand through his hair. Finally he speaks up. “You were actually really wasted last night.”  
Bellamy winces slightly and gave a small huff of a laugh. “Yeah, I’m feeling it now, so um, sorry about that though.”  
“Oh don’t be sorry. You didn’t do anything really asshole-ish.”  
“Oh. That’s good at least.” Bellamy takes a rather large gulp of coffee to hide his awkwardness, and right as he does, the man leans forward and sticks his face right next to Bellamy’s and stares.  
“Um,” Bellamy says really eloquently. “What? What’s wrong?” The man sniffs around Bellamy’s face and Bellamy pulls back slightly. “Have I got morning breath or something?” he asks, slightly alarmed now.  
“No, no. You actually got rid of your morning breath,” the man says accusingly. “You brushed your teeth.”  
“Um, yeah, I did. Well, not that much but-”  
“That’s cheating,” the man declares and sits back with a large thump onto the bed.  
“Um, I didn’t know we were playing a game?” Bellamy stutters. The man laughs, “No, you see, now you smell like you work at a toothpaste factory while I smell like sweaty balls.”  
Bellamy half snorts, half chokes into his coffee as the man gives a sort of crooked smirk. He rolls onto his stomach, twisting the white sheets and messing up the bed even more than it already was. Bellamy watches him struggle with the sheets around his legs and smiling to himself he asks, “So, um, do you go to the club often? Like, do you like gay clubs?”  
The man stops messing with the fabric and turned so he could give Bellamy a acidly sarcastic glare. “Do you like gay clubs?” he mocks.  
“Uh, not really, no.”  
“Then there we have it.” He seems satisfied and flung himself off of the bed, searching for something on the floor. “And now, it’s my turn to question you.” Bellamy gapes a bit at the scrawny man as he whips out a tape recorder from seemingly nowhere.  
“W-was that in your underwear?”  
“No don’t be silly,” he says, grinning mischievously. “It was up my asshole.” He shoves his underwear on quickly and crawled back onto the bed and begins to fiddle with the device. “You do remember my terms, right?”  
Bellamy searches his very limited memory of last night, and he does vaguely recall the man yelling something about a tape recorder, an art project, and hookups over the music at the club. He also remembers the man telling him his name, but it was also when he was giving Bellamy a very skilled handjob, so it’s only logical that Bellamy would not remember the details. He clears his throat nervously and says, “Um kind of? You might wanna run them by me again. And um, I kind of don’t remember your name?” The man sighs and shuffles closer.  
“I’m doing an art project that involves any man I hook up with. All _you_ have to do,” he points a sharp finger at Bellamy. “Is just talk about what happened last night.” Bellamy opens his mouth to speak, but the other man cuts him off, “Oh, and you can just call me Murphy.”  
Bellamy blinks and closes his mouth. The man, Murphy, just smiles up at him. Bellamy sighs through his nose.  
“Um, so what do I say?”  
“Oh, just what happened, how you picked me up, what you wished would’ve happened, if my dick was pretty, the basics.”  
“Why would your dick be pretty-”  
“Oh just start talking,” Murphy groans as he shoves the tape recorder into Bellamy’s face. Bellamy scratches his jaw, shifts his weight around, and coughs out, “Um, right. Ok. Uh, I saw you. At the club, The City of Light. I just kinda felt you staring at me? Y’know, and you have a very scary stare.” Bellamy glances down at Murphy, who’s half grinning at his awkwardness. Bellamy clears his throat again. “Um, and I thought you were a little intense, but like, in a really hot way. And then you walked into the bathroom,”  
“And you followed me, like the cute little puppy dog you are.” Murphy says, peering up at him, seeming to really enjoy this now. “And you tried to jump me at the urinal, really hot there Bellamy.”  
Bellamy laughs, a little embarrassed, saying, “Then we made out for a bit, next to the urinal, which was, as you so kindly pointed out, really hot. Then you asked if I wanted to go back to your place or mine, you remembered that your flatmate was home, thank god, and um, then we went back to my place.”  
“And we made a little pit stop in your hallway,” Murphy teases and smirks when Bellamy blushes.  
“Yeah, you, um, took my shirt off kinda violently. I was scared that it was gonna rip.”  
Murphy laughs at this and rolls closer to Bellamy. “And _then_ what happened?”  
“You kissed my cheek, um, then my neck, and my chest, and then,” he trails off at the next memory.  
“And then?”  
“Uh, you kissed - you kissed my hand,” Bellamy marvels at the sheer bizarreness of that. Who kisses someone’s hand? What if Bellamy didn’t wash his hands? Finger-kissing, now that’s sexy. But putting your mouth on someone’s sweaty palms? Not exactly.  
“Yes, I did kiss your hand. You have quite nice hands, by the way,” Murphy says, satisfied with himself, and then lightly shoves Bellamy’s shoulder. “Now, what happened after we finished in the hallway?” Bellamy’s feeling more than a little overwhelmed, but continues, “Then we went into my bedroom.”  
“And then we entered pound-town baby!” Bellamy stops in his tracks.  
“What the hell did you just say?” he inquires incredulously.  
“Pound-town. You know, the whole dick-up-your-ass thing. Do I need to explain sex again to you Bellamy?” Murphy somehow keeps a straight face, peering condescendingly at Bellamy, who sputters, “No, Jesus Christ. I’ve just never heard the term ‘pound-town’ used unironically. And for the record, it was my dick up your ass.”  
“Ah, yeah. You insisted that I bottom.”  
“Shit, was I awful about it?” Bellamy rubs his face with his hand roughly, like he could wipe the memory back into place. Murphy laughs, saying “Nah, you were just a bit frightened to bottom. But I don’t mind.” He snuggles into the pillow a bit more and moves the tape recorder closer to Bellamy’s face. “But I must ask, why were you so scared? Was I a bit too rough?”  
Bellamy stutters out, “No! No, no, um, I’m just not really. Fuck,” he breathes out, running his hand through his hair.  
“You’re not out?” Murphy sat a little bit more stiffly, the ever-accusing tape recorder pointing at Bellamy’s face. Bellamy clenches his jaw before saying, “No. I’m out, I swear. I’m just, not really into that?” He gives Murphy a stony look, who in return gave him a classic cutting glare. Bellamy sighs. This was all pointless, fucking pointless. He retorts, “Look. It was a really nice, lovely time. I had a good time, ok Murphy? That’s all I’m going to say, alright?”  
Murphy snaps the tape recorder off in response, shut his eyes, and shoves his face into the pillow, leaving Bellamy to put his head in his hands and groan.

Bellamy now stood at the window, watching silently as Murphy walks down the sidewalk, fourteen stories below him. He’s all edges and bitterness, with his hands planted firmly in his pockets and his shoulders square against the wind. They had exchanged numbers a few minutes ago, with Murphy leaning up against the wall and Bellamy standing in the doorway. Murphy shook his hand firmly, gave a brief, sarcastic, “It was lovely to meet you and you do have a really very nice home,” before scampering down all fourteen flights of stairs and he was gone. Bellamy watches as Murphy stumbles a bit going down the sidewalk, and Bellamy can practically hear him cursing at the concrete. He smiles a little, and then turns away. With Murphy over for the whole morning, he had procrastinated his online work for long enough. But somehow when he finally opens up his laptop and sits down, his mind decides to throw out everything important except for Murphy. How is he supposed to translate this very important document when his stupid face is burning into his eyelids? Bellamy pretends to do work for another ten minutes before slamming his laptop shut and deciding that he can be early to lifeguard. Maybe he’ll even save someone from drowning.

Of course, Bellamy doesn’t get to save anyone from drowning. He never has and probably never will. Instead he’s perched in his chair, watching the swimmers pull their lanky bodies through the water and listening to the echoes of conversations bounce around the ceiling, their words warped. No matter what’s happening outside, nothing ever changes in the pool. The swim team is practicing, the same coach running back and forth on the deck, his face bright red and his voice loud and overpowering. The diving board bounces every ten minutes behind him, like clockwork. There are the same people in the smaller pool, laughing and floating together. Bellamy watches these people more often, and like always, trying not to pay attention to the two men who were obviously a couple. They came every once in awhile, and when they did, Bellamy could not focus on anything else. He tries to aim his attention towards his actual job, but then the men kiss and jokingly tackle each other and suddenly Bellamy can’t pull his gaze away. Today, however, Bellamy allows himself to stare, to fantasize about doing that himself. He imagines being so open and happy with his boyfriend, or actually having a boyfriend. God, that sounds nice. The men get out of the pool and begin to towel off, smiling and drying each other. Because Bellamy can’t control his mind and he also hates himself, he imagines doing this with Murphy. Ok, he has that sound really nice, to laugh more with him, to towel him off when he missed a spot, to kiss him so casually in public, and jesus, is he fucked. Maybe it’s his massive headache, his really poor judgement, or the fact that he really doesn’t care anymore, but Bellamy decides to text Murphy. This is such a bad idea, he thinks, as he types out, _I feel like absolute shit_ , hesitates for only a second, and then hits send.

It’s only about 10 minutes, and Bellamy’s phone buzzes with a _Well, meet me after work then. I’ll bring the good shit._

The good shit, as it turns out, is two tall bottles of Snapple. Goddamn peach flavored Snapple. Bellamy already feels a grin creeping onto his face as his walks towards Murphy, who’s leaning against the bike rack and looking slightly put off. Or maybe that’s just his permanent expression.  
“Good afternoon there Bellamy,” Murphy says airly and hands him the glass bottle. Bellamy shakes his head endearingly, and laughs, “You think peach Snapple is ‘the good shit?’”  
“Yeah man, you’ve ever tasted this? It’s like crack for your soul.”  
Bellamy snorts and clinks their bottles together. “Well, cheers.” They stand there for a couple minutes, drinking the Snapple, which tastes pretty darn good, and watching the cars drive past. Bellamy glances over at Murphy every so often, watching the way he just _exists_. He is pale fingers wrapped around the peach colored drink, hair falling into his face, sharp edges contrasting his intelligence and soft smile. Bellamy thinks that he could see himself loving all of those tiny details, and maybe even Murphy himself. His stomach twists and he turns his gaze towards the cars again. Oh, love is _not_ part of his plan. He shakes his head, almost in a way to dislodge his emotions and turns to unchain his bike from the bike rack. He yanks it free and looks back at Murphy. “You gonna walk me home?” Bellamy asks, giving a sideways grin. Murphy returns it and steps next to him, exclaiming, “Yeah, who else is gonna make sure you’re safe?”  
Bellamy rolls his eyes and begins to walk the bike down the sidewalk, Murphy traipsing alongside him. They stroll across the park and through the tunnel plastered with graffiti, the bike clicking and Murphy’s heavy boots slapping the pavement every time he took a step. He finally speaks, asking, “So, Bellamy, you’re a lifeguard. You ever saved someone?”  
“Nah, never. Which is kind of strange, since I’ve been lifeguarding ever since high school. I’ve seen people drown a couple times, but I wasn’t on duty.”  
“Ah, shame,” Murphy comments and skips up ahead of Bellamy, running his fingers along the side of the tunnel. “It be cool to have contributed to someone’s lifespan, y’know? Like, I’ll probably go my whole life without saving someone.” Bellamy looks ahead at Murphy, responding, “So will millions of other people.” Murphy replies by spinning around and giving him a strange look. “But that’s why I want to save someone. I want to be one of those who has another’s life tied to them. Like, I’m not that special. But if you save someone, you’re completely altering their life!” Murphy continues walking and takes a deep breath excitedly . “Like, you just decided that every potential event, emotion, or action that that person will take will happen! And it was all because of you, you are partly responsible for everything that person does in the future! That’s really fucking cool Bellamy!” He finishes his rant and takes another breath and continues to walk with a bouncy step. Bellamy just stops and stares at Murphy incredulously, who notices that Bellamy is no longer next to him. He halts and turns around. “What?” he asks, like he doesn’t fucking know why Bellamy stopped.  
“You are really something Murphy,” Bellamy notes and starts to push his bike along again, and Murphy has to run to catch up, yelling, “No, seriously! What?”

They finally reach the end of the tunnel, haul the bike up the stairs, and stand on the side of the busy highway that leads back to Bellamy’s apartment. Murphy hasn’t said anything since, but that just means that it’s Bellamy’s turn to question him. He glances over at the other man, and half-shouts over the noise of the cars, “So, where did you say you worked again?” Murphy perks his head up at this, and replies, “I work at the gallery downtown.”  
“Oh, that’s right, I actually do remember you saying that.”  
“Have you ever been?”  
“Uh, no, never. I always thought it was kinda boring.”  
Murphy whips his head around to look at Bellamy. “Do you enjoy art?” he asks, cutting his gaze through Bellamy. A car blasts its horn behind them.  
“Yeah, yeah, it’s great. I never said I disliked it-”  
“It’s perfectly fine if you don’t like art.”  
“No, I like it I swear,” Bellamy runs his fingers through his hair, which is getting more wild every time the wind blows. “Look, do you wanna ride back with me?”  
Murphy gives him an “are you joking?” look and says slowly, “Dude, there’s only one bicycle.” Bellamy shrugs. “Just get on the back,” he asserts, and swings his leg over the front of the bike. Murphy’s jaw drops slightly and he lets out a short laugh. “You can’t be serious.”  
Bellamy shrugs again and just stands there. Murphy laughs disbelievingly again, saying, “For fuck’s sake. Oh god this is a bad idea!” Nevertheless, he hops onto the back and wraps his arms solidly around the other man’s waist. Bellamy gives them a solid push, and they roll bumpily down the sidewalk. As they slowly pick up speed, Murphy’s absolutely insane laughter echoes in Bellamy’s head as they pedal towards his apartment. “We look like fucking idiots!” he chokes out in Bellamy’s ear and Bellamy can hardly see because he’s smiling so wide.  
“Scream if you want to go faster!” he yells back. Murphy slowly unhooks from around Bellamy’s waist and throws his arms into the air. He lets out a little whoop and laughs wildly again, and Bellamy thinks that yeah, maybe he could love Murphy.

Bellamy’s apartment smells lovely now that he put on the coffee and threw some bagels in the toaster. When he and Murphy had arrived back at his flat, it smelled musty, unused, and empty. His kitchen wasn’t spacious in the first place, with the oven and stove crammed against the wall, framed by the cupboards and a shaky table opposite to the window. But Murphy had stood next to Bellamy the whole time he was making the coffee and slicing the bagels, too close to be comfortable, but Bellamy didn’t really care. He cared even less when he turned his head to ask Murphy if he wanted milk or sugar, and Bellamy found himself staring right into the other man’s eyes with their noses barely brushing. He had coughed and busied himself with putting cream cheese on their bagels, but Murphy remained pressed up against his side and resting his chin on Bellamy’s shoulder, despite being more than a few inches shorter than him. After a few more minutes of Murphy commenting on how Bellamy’s mugs all looked like grandma mugs and writing something on the small whiteboard on the fridge, they both sat at the table across from each other. There’s some silence. Bellamy swallows a bit of the bagel and asks, “Um, so you said you worked at the gallery? So is that what you want to be? An artist, I mean.” Murphy chews for a second and replies through a mouthful of bread, “Kind of.”  
He says nothing further, so Bellamy presses again, “How is your tape recording art project going?”  
“It’s going.”  
“Well, you obviously don’t have to answer if you don’t want, but, I was just wondering, how are you going to turn that into an art piece? Because to me it just seems like loads of tapes of people talking dirty.” Murphy looks straight at him.  
“Do you really think that talking about sex is dirty?” he inquires, tilting his head. Bellamy sighs, “Not really, but I don’t think I really want to listen to what random strangers like to do in bed.”  
“No, you just don’t want random strangers to hear what you like in bed.”  
“Well, yeah, of course, that’s really weird.”  
“Ok, but, imagine if everyone was so completely open about sex! Then nothing would be weird or awkward!” Murphy exclaims, sitting up a bit straighter.  
“But people are open about it!” Bellamy fires back. “I hear men talking all the time about how many fingers they can put in a women and shit like that.”  
“Ah, but are they gay?” Murphy wiggles his eyebrows at Bellamy, who coughs for the tenth time in the past minute. “Um, no?” he says questioningly.  
“Yes! Exactly! Gay people are forced to be ashamed of the sex they have, so they can’t be open about it!” Murphy slams one of his palms on the table for emphasis; his dark hair falls in front of his eyes. Bellamy really wants to brush it back, but he replies simply, “Or they’re just embarrassed about it.”  
“Isn’t that the same thing?” Murphy counters and goes back to inspecting the rest of his food. “You make a mean bagel Bellamy Blake,” he states, signifying the end of that discussion. “Anyway the tape project isn’t really about sex.”  
“Oh really?” Bellamy raises an eyebrow. “Then please explain.” For the first time, Murphy looks slightly uncertain. “I don’t really want to,” he explains. “Whenever artists explain their work, they sound like a pretentious ass, and I’d rather not pretend to be some flouncy bucko who makes up shit to sound important.” Bellamy blinks at this, but asserts, “No, now you have to tell me because I’m interested and because if you don’t, I’m gonna call you a ‘flouncy bucko’ for the rest of your life.”  
Murphy laughs and leans back. “Alright, I’ll explain it, but you can’t judge me, ok?”  
Bellamy gives him a sarcastic look and gestures for him to go on, and Murphy sighs. “Alright, so you know when you first sleep with someone who you don’t know?” He flicks his gaze over to Bellamy, almost looking for validation, so Bellamy gives him a short nod. Murphy begins again, “Well, when you become so intimate with someone you’ve never met before, you almost completely reform who you are for that night. You finally can become this person you’ve always wanted to be. Indifference to the other person gives you a sort of freedom, and it’s pretty cool because everyone exercises this freedom.”  
Bellamy stops him, inquiring, “So, do you think that I did that? Reformed myself?” The other man smirks for a second, “Oh of course you did.” Bellamy leans back at this news in mild surprise, but waves his hand for Murphy to go on.  
“Well, I think that when you reform yourself, you leave this space in between who you are and who you made yourself into. And that space holds what’s keeping you from becoming the person you’ve always wanted to be.”  
Bellamy considers this for a second. “And you got all of that from talking about hookups and dicks?” he wonders.  
“All that from talking about hookups and dicks.” Murphy tears off a piece of the bagel and eats it quickly. Bellamy questions, “But how are you going to display it? Like, are the tapes just going to be playe-”  
“I don’t know, I don’t know, that’s the problem,” Murphy interjects, smoothing his hair back. “And no one is going to come see it because it features gay sex. Who gives a shit about gay sex?”  
“I care a lot about gay sex,” Bellamy offers, and Murphy rolls his eyes. “Well yeah, the gays will come because they’re sex-crazed, but not for the art. And the straights would rather go see an exhibit about incest and murder than an exhibit about gay sex. No one would give two rats’ asses about my art, that’s my problem.” The silence stretches out between them after Murphy’s rant is over. Bellamy finally says, “Well, fuck it.” Murphy lifts his head.  
“I’d say just fuck it. I’d come.” A giggle escapes out of Murphy, and he shakes his head fondly. “No you wouldn’t.” His laugh is infectious, and Bellamy cracks a grin. “Ok, maybe I wouldn’t,” he snorts. But he’s thinking, _I totally would. I would Murphy._

Bellamy has learned a lot about Murphy in the past hour or so, and the least surprising thing is that Murphy is straight-edge. He doesn’t drink, or even smoke, so he refuses when Bellamy offer to roll him a joint. Bellamy simply shrugs and throws out the thought of smoking, since he really doesn’t want to drive Murphy away quite yet. They’ve moved to Bellamy’s green couch, which is slightly off-putting, as Murphy so kindly pointed out. Bellamy first sat with his ankles crossed and hands folded, but Murphy hopped up and slapped him for “sitting like a straight boy waiting for a girl to come down for a date,” so Bellamy decided it was best that he relaxed. Now they sit facing each other, feet tucked underneath them, and snuggled into the side of the couch. Murphy talks right away while peering at Bellamy. “So are you out to your parents?”  
Bellamy doesn’t reply right away, staring at his hands. He sighs quietly, saying “Well, it’s complicated.”  
“How is it complicated? You’re either out or you’re not.” Murphy gestures vaguely at Bellamy. “I came out to my mom on Mother’s Day.”  
“Did they take it well?”  
“Yeah, they were alright with it, but they both died about a year later when I was seventeen so it wouldn’t have mattered anyway.”  
Bellamy is silent for a couple seconds, not really knowing how to respond to that bombshell, while Murphy studies the living room like he’s seeing it for the first time. “Why did you decide to paint the walls such an ugly beige-”  
“I don’t know my parents.” Bellamy looks down back at his hands. “Um, I’ve been in an orphanage my whole life.” Murphy whips his head around sharply to study Bellamy. “What was that like?” he asks cautiously, like Bellamy’s about to start crying and breaking down.  
“It was fine, I mean, nothing bad happened to me. Me and my friend Clarke just went around as a pair from house to house. It was actually pretty fun at times.”  
Murphy continues to edge closer to Bellamy as he’s talking, the edges of his mouth twitching. “Does Clarke know about you being gay?” he inquires.  
“Yeah, of course she does. She’s bisexual herself, so we were like queer little siblings parading around. All of my friends know about me, um, at least the close ones.” Bellamy stares right back at Murphy, who seems to be ... crying? No, he’s giggling. Fucking giggling. Bellamy furrows his eyebrows, complaining, “What the _fuck_ Murphy. What’s so funny?” Murphy full on explodes into laughter at this, reaching his hand towards Bellamy’s forearm to grip it, his body shaking as he quite frankly chokes with laughter. “Are you laughing at my childhood trauma?” Bellamy whines, but breaks into a snorting laughter himself. Murphy finally pulls himself together enough to stutter, “Sorry man, but I keep picturing you as Oliver or some shit with Mr. Bumble,” and he loses it again, cackling and wiping his eyes. Bellamy laughs at this too, deep-throated and full, while thinking _What the hell is going on?_ Murphy dabs his eyes, while still holding Bellamy’s hand in his other free hand. “Oh god, I’m a bad person.”  
“Yes, you’re a horrible person.” Bellamy agrees, and lets out one last laugh. They let a silence fall, but a light, playful silence with unspoken agreements flitting between them. Murphy’s hand rises from Bellamy’s arm to hold Bellamy’s face, to feel his strong jaw move beneath his fingers. Bellamy can feel the fond smile carved on his face, and Murphy is mirroring the same grin. Their eyes move from their stare-down to each other's lips, and Bellamy is no longer nervous. He can’t look away from Murphy’s beautiful, sharp features because nothing else could ever be more interesting and complex. He closes his eyes as Murphy’s fingers inch through his hair and tug his head down to meet his and then they are kissing. Their lips overlap and meld together, chapped and hot. Bellamy’s hands reach to grip behind the man’s head, holding him close, cementing this into place. The kiss is tinged with lust; their fingers clutching desperately at each other. Bellamy can feel his heart thumping through his chest and falling into his lap as they kiss. Murphy sighs into it and opens his mouth, letting Bellamy inside. After a minute or so, they break apart to whispers of “take this off,” and the rest explodes in Bellamy’s mind as pure light, blinding him but also giving him everything he’s ever wanted.

Bellamy’s shirt is completely wrinkled, but he slips it over his head anyway. Murphy is yanking his black jeans back on and hopping about by the door. “Shit, my roommate is going to worry about me being gone this whole time,” he pants as he finally gets his jeans on.  
Bellamy nods towards him. “So, does she live with you all the time?”  
“Emori? Yeah, but that’s only because I like her. She’s a good girl.” Murphy zips up his pants. “She mostly stays out of the way, doing some mischievous shit somewhere. Well, she worries about me like the mom I never had, which can get a little annoying, but she means well.” Bellamy nods and starts to show Murphy out towards the front door. They stop in the same hallway that is now forever chronicled in Murphy’s art project. “Um, I’ll call you later today, and uh, thank you for this afternoon,” Murphy expresses. They lean in with uncertainty and awkwardness for a quick peck on the lips. Bellamy gives a half-smile as Murphy waves and slips out the door, and he shuts it with a note of finality. Bellamy locks the door and begins to walk away when there’s a rapid knock on the door. He turns back confusedly, and unlocks it. It’s Murphy, of course. He looks nervous and anxious, like something horrible happened in the span of the two seconds he was gone. “Hello again. Look, I forgot to tell you something,” he mumbles, not looking Bellamy in the eye.  
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Bellamy queried, half-jokingly.  
“No, I don’t have a boyfriend, I don’t do boyfriends, um,” he breathes out quietly, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I’m going away tomorrow.” Bellamy blinks and asks back, “Um, that’s fun, where are you going?”  
“Manchester. As in the UK.”  
“Oh. How long are you going for?” Bellamy is fairly nonplussed now as Murphy lets a weak chuckle. “Uh, for about two years. Maybe more.” The air seems to thin for a second, like the world got flipped upside down for a split-second. Bellamy can’t seem to find any coherent thoughts, but manages to reply, “Oh. Oh, um I thought you meant like, a vacation or something.”  
“No, I’m taking a course over there. ‘Modern Art in the Contemporary Perspectives of the 21st Century.’” Murphy swallows and looks down at the floor.  
“An art course?” Bellamy marvels for a second. “Wow, Murphy, that’s - that’s amazing.”  
“Fuck, I should told you before, god-”  
“No! No, Murphy it’s fine! It’s awesome.” Bellamy still struggles to breathe, but repeats, “An art course.” Murphy gives a weak grin. “Um, now I look like an asshole,” he says shakily, and steps in to kiss Bellamy on the cheek. Bye, for the second time,” he breathes and runs back out the door. Bellamy stands there, still in shock, and is about to close the door when Murphy bursts right back in again.  
“Fuck, um, me and my friends are going out for a drink tonight, and it would be really frickin awesome if you could come, but you don’t have to if you feel too pressured, but I really want you to come, so I’ll text you the details and maybe you can come? Ok? Um, bye for real now.” Murphy takes a deep breath, pulls the sleeves of his sweater over his hands, and goes right back out the door. He’s like a flash-bang of a human, thrown haphazardly into Bellamy’s path, exploding with a loud crack!, a flash of light, and then the shocking silence that come after. Which leaves Bellamy with a heavy cotton in his ears and nothing but a sense of loss and longing at the same time. This time when Bellamy watched Murphy leave from his window way up above, Murphy still trips and stumbles, but for a very different reason.

There is a way too familiar word document pulled up on Bellamy’s laptop. It has been glaring at him for the past half hour, the cursor blinking robotically and its words mock him from the screen. Bellamy types up a few more phrases frustratedly, but nothing seems to look quite right to him, so he slams the laptop shut and covers his eyes. He has forbid himself to think about anything. Not just specifically Murphy. Anything. He can’t think, he can’t consider any fucking options. It’s not worth it to be sitting here, running every thought through his head like a record until they are worn and see-through, and then what will he do? Bellamy lays across his bed for another minute, definitely not thinking, and eventually decides to run a bath. Besides desperately needing to clean himself, Bellamy also needs the catharsis a bath gives him. The water calms him down, liquefies his brain in a good way, with the steam curling his hair. He watches the soap again this time, but for some reason, he’s sad when it melts into the water. It’s gone forever, dissipating into nothingness and Bellamy hates the finality. He wants vibrancy, a challenge. He doesn’t want to disappear into the water. He doesn’t want to be gone forever, because forever is so fucking scary. It’s a beautiful thing, but it terrifies him. Bellamy splashes his face with the water to shake himself out of it, cursing himself for thinking again. Thinking sucks.

Bellamy’s phone does ring later, but it isn’t Murphy as promised. Instead, Clarke’s voice echoes out, cheerful and sunny. “Bellamy! Hey!” she exclaims, sounding a lot happier than Bellamy feels. “Hey Clarke,” he forces out, willing himself to sound like he’s actually enjoying life right now.  
“Hey, so Raven, Lexa, Jasper, and I were all thinking about going into town later tonight! You want in?”  
“Oh, um, I actually have plans later tonight.” Bellamy shifts uncomfortably, trying to get blood flow back to his foot, which had fallen asleep a while ago. “With, uh, someone I met yesterday.”  
“Oh!” Clarke’s voice sounds mildly surprised, which kind of annoys Bellamy. He isn’t _that_ pathetic, right? “Wow, Bellamy that’s awesome! Where’d you meet him?”  
“Um, The City of Light.”  
“A gay club? Damn Bellamy, you’re getting wild in your old age,” she laughs teasingly. Bellamy’s voice rises a couple of octaves, “Hey, you’re only two years younger than me! I’m not that old!”  
“Oh, sure gramps. Go back to your knitting.”  
“Oh, fuck you,” Bellamy says, only joking a little bit. There’s a pleasant, short silence. Clarke’s voice rings out more seriously, “But actually. That’s really awesome Bellamy. I’m happy for you.” He swallows roughly, replying “Yeah. I would come but, um, he’s leaving tomorrow, and I want to see him before he’s gone, y’know?”  
“Hey, I understand. Just be careful, ok?”  
Bellamy smiles gratefully. “I’ll be careful, I promise.” They exchange some more pleasantries, and Bellamy hangs up with mostly emptiness, but also a sense of gratefulness for the silence that lays over him after Clarke’s voice is gone. He situates on the bed for a couple minutes afterwards, trying to gather up the strength to put on some presentable attire, but god, the closet seems so far away. The only thing that finally gets him up and moving is the thought that this will be the last time Murphy sees him, possibly ever, and fucking hell, that freaks him out even more. Forever is such a stupid concept with stupid consequences, and Bellamy shoves his socks on so forcefully that he almost jabs a hole in them. And why the fuck does he only have white Nikes?

Bellamy squints up at the name of the bar that Murphy finally texted to him about an hour ago. The Ark is fairly unassuming, with dark wood paneling and a loud interior that juxtaposes the quiet-looking facade. It’s a straight bar, as Murphy called it over text message, meaning that it wasn’t overabundant in glitter and shockingly green cocktails. Bellamy stands outside the bar for a couple more seconds, shifting his weight around, before taking the plunge into the crowded building. He squeezes past the tanned women attempting to take a sloppy selfie and the drunk people who could barely stand on their own feet to finally reach the bar counter. The weirdly ambient music buzzes in his head as he orders two bitters from the taciturn bartender. Faces flash past Bellamy in a blur as he scans the crowd for Murphy’s sharp features, hoping and praying that he’s actually going to show up. His stomach clenches into a knot as the bartender returns with his drinks, and Murphy is still nowhere to be seen. A pinching regret begins to creep into his thoughts.  
“Hey, you ugly bastard! Long time no see!”  
Bellamy can breathe again. He’s never been more happy to hear Murphy’s high-pitched cursing. He glances in the direction of the voice to see the man himself embracing a tall guy by the entrance. They make eye contact so quickly it’s almost like their eyes are magnets, tugging towards each other. Bellamy smiles shyly at him as Murphy releasing his grip on the tall man and makes his way over to Bellamy.  
“I didn’t think you’d actually come,” Murphy confesses as a way of greeting and runs his eyes over Bellamy’s figure. “Nice flannel, by the way. Love the lumberjack vibe.” Bellamy rolls his eyes, which he seems prone to do around Murphy, but grins anyway. “Well, at least I have other clothes besides a black sweater,” he teases.  
“Ok, listen to this wise guy, what if I just have ten of the same sweater? And I just switch them out everyday?”  
“That’s impractical and unnecessary.”  
“Well, I’m an impractical and unnecessary guy.” Murphy smirks and gestures at the drinks in Bellamy’s hand. “And you already know that I’m straightedge, Bellamy Blake.” The Bellamy Blake mentioned would’ve immediately slap his forehead with his palm if he had a free hand. “Shit, I can’t believe I forgot,” he groans. “Sorry about that.” Murphy just shrugs in response, standing too close to Bellamy again, as if personal space was foreign to him.  
“Anyway, why did you choose this bar Murphy?” Bellamy questions, looking around the room. He honestly expected something really stereotypically gay, since Murphy seemed like the type to protest against the straights.  
“It’s a little bit more exciting than your, uh, your typical gay bar.” Murphy grabs one of the beers out of Bellamy’s hand and shoves it back onto the bar table. “So, you ready?” He shifts his weight with a nervous demeanor, like he’s worried about Bellamy meeting his friends. Bellamy is equally as anxious, because if they’re anything like Murphy then he’s about to be in way over his head. He takes a deep breath, however, and replies, “Not really, but let’s go.”

Well, Bellamy’s in way over his head. Murphy’s group is loud, queer, and very close knit. He’s practically dragged over to the circle of people, who Murphy shouts at, “Hey! Hey, everyone, I hope you don’t mind that I brought a new member, let’s not make it a big deal. This is Bellamy everyone!” Murphy yanks him into the group and begins pointing around the circle. “Bellamy, this is Dick One, Dick Two, Dick Three, God, Dick Four, Harper, and you already know who Emori is. Say hi to Bellamy everyone!” They shriek a very enthusiastic “Hi!” at Bellamy, who is now very overwhelmed. He doesn’t recognize anyone staring back at him. The tall man from earlier is there, whom Murphy referred to as Dick Three. “God” is a tiny redheaded woman with intricate-looking braids, and Harper and Emori are talking fervently to each other over the deafening music. Emori catches Bellamy staring confusedly and waves. He gives her a small smile in return and takes a rather large gulp of beer to wash away his uncertainty. He turns his attention back to Murphy, who had begun to regale the group with a story that seems to be about a shitty blind date.  
“Anyway, so I’m lying stark naked on the bed, trying to stay hard while I wait for this dude to finish doing whatever it is he’s doing. And I’m telling you, I had no fucking clue what was going on, I just hear these zips and squeaking noises coming from the bathroom, ayyy!” His story is interrupted by the arrival of the vodka shots and shouts from his friends as they grab eagerly at the glasses. Bellamy decides not to take a shot, but watches Murphy as he grins almost sadistically as he observes his friends getting drunk off their asses. Bellamy still can’t believe he’s straightedge, out of all the people.  
“Anyway,” Murphy begins, “anyway, so I’m still lying on the bed, and all of the sudden, he finally walks into the room in a full-on, latex bodysuit. A fucking latex bodysuit.” He pauses as the rest of the group oohs and laughs at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. “And I told him, ‘Dude, I’m not into latex, I thought we discussed this’ and _then_ to convince me to stay he starts grinding and dancing! Which first of all,” Murphy laughs out, too amused to continue. “First of all, I don’t know how he could move at all in that tight little bodysuit, and second of all, did he honestly believe that grinding on the goddamn bed was going to turn me on? Fucking hell!” The circle of people laughs raucously, the music pounds into Bellamy’s head, and he honestly doesn’t know how he ended up here. Dick One nudges his arm and offers him a shot, snorting and stumbling drunkenly. As he refuses the drink, Bellamy curses in Murphy in his mind. God, he is so screwed

Bellamy eventually leaves Murphy, who had begun to argue about something with one of his friends, so Bellamy thought it was best to leave him be. He wanders over to where Emori sits at a table by herself, holding a soda in one hand. He smiles politely at her and settles at the seat next to her. “Hey,” he nods at her. “You alright?” Emori’s face curves into a soft smile. “Yeah, but I’d just leave Murphy alone for now.” She gestures vaguely in Murphy’s direction. “He’s started phase one of his attack.” Bellamy glances back over at Murphy, who’s leaning up against the bar counter, gesticulating wildly at the other man he’s fighting with, who honestly looks fairly dumbfounded. His voice rings above everyone else’s, criticizing, “Well, of course heteronormativity exists! The whole ‘straight culture’ is the foundation for society! In every single book, TV show, movie, everyone is assumed to be straight! And they always play out the same trope: the boy meets girl, they have some hetero problems, and they eventually skip off into the sunset. And that’s part of the problem, that’s the automatic assumption thing I was talking about! People don’t even consider if the person is any other sexuality or orientation, and it pisses me off!” Bellamy watched Murphy pause to take and breath and let the other man talk, which he honestly doesn’t think is going to last long. He turns back to Emori, shaking his head fondly. She’s watching him with an amused smile and leans in to say, “Y’know, I think he does really like you.” Bellamy blinks at this, slightly taken back while Emori tucks her long, dark hair behind her ear. “No, I really do! He didn’t let me listen to your tape, and he always lets me listen. Even to the really nasty ones!” She raises her eyebrows for emphasis. “You must have done something to him, Bellamy, because he’s very protective of that tape.”  
“To be honest with you, I’m kind of glad he didn’t let you listen,” Bellamy responds, looking down at the dirty floor. “I don’t want anyone else hearing that.” Emori’s eyes light up. “Yet!” she exclaims. “I haven’t listened to it yet. I’ll convince Murphy eventually!”, her tone teasing and playful. Bellamy continues to glare hard down at the floor, which only gives Emori more fuel for her fire. “What? Oh my god, is it really dirty?” Her wide grin is barely visible in the dim lights of the bar, and her laugh at Bellamy’s lack of response is barely audible. “Oh my god, it is, isn’t it? Bellamy, you kinky boy.”  
“It’s nothing like that!”  
“Oh, then is it super boring? Or was it the best?” Bellamy just shakes his head in exasperation and Emori leans back in her chair. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to wait and find out then,” she states.  
“Nah, as soon as I get the chance, I’m burning that tape,” Bellamy jokes, and twists slightly to look at Murphy, who had begun yelling quite loudly again.  
“No! No, no, you can just ignore a whole community of people just to prove your point! Anyone who’s not straight needs to be heard in the world! I’ve heard enough from the hets, I can tell you that much!”  
“So, has Murphy told you about his little trip tomorrow?” Emori’s voice pulls Bellamy back towards her conversation, but Murphy’s speech stays present in his mind. “Um, yeah actually, he did. He told me he was going to Manchester for an art course.”  
“Ooh, drama in the relationship already! How’d you take it?” She props her head in her hands and blinks expectantly at Bellamy.  
“Um, we’re not really in a relationship, but I guess I’m still in shock, kind of. I didn’t really expect it.”  
“Mm. I bet Murphy told you he didn’t do relationships or something dramatic like that.”  
“Yeah, he did. Really bluntly, as a matter of fact.” The music and beer is starting to split into Bellamy’s head, giving him a pre-hangover headache. Emori snorts. “Of course he did. He’s been like that ever since Finn. Has he told you about Finn?” The room is spinning in Bellamy’s eyes, and he picks up snippets of Murphy and the man still going at it, now about homophobia or some shit. He rubs the back of his head. “Uh, no he hasn’t told me about Finn.” Was it even her place to tell him?  
“Well, this was back when Murphy did the whole ‘boyfriends’ thing. See, Finn used to cheat on him. A lot, actually, but Murphy said it didn’t matter, but it mattered a whole lot to me! Then, at the end of the relationship, Finn was walking in the park and he got beaten up really badly. Murphy doesn’t like to talk about this part, but Finn was raped that night. It messed Murphy up really badly.” Emori takes a sip of her drink, her round eyes flashing with pity for Murphy, but also for Bellamy. He doesn’t really know what to say to this, so he just sits there across from Emori, head down, looking at the floor, and still listening to Murphy’s pervasive voice. Despite everything, he never wants to leave this bar and he never wants Murphy’s voice to stop, because he has a tendency to fall in love with people at the worst moment.

The bar’s calmed down now, and Bellamy is pleasantly drunk and Murphy’s eyes are really pretty. They’re probably the prettiest thing Bellamy’s ever seen. Fuck, how has he not noticed this before? It’s kind of hard to look anywhere else, since Bellamy is sitting so near to Murphy that every eyelash and tiny freckle is a floating spot in Bellamy’s vision. There is a calm smile on Murphy’s lips and his hand flits between the table and Bellamy’s arm. Nothing has felt more wonderful to Bellamy’s intoxicated skin than Murphy’s sweaty fingers tracing patterns onto it. He smiles, and Murphy’s brow furrows. “What?” he quieres, moving even closer to the other man. He seems so strangely concerned, which just makes Bellamy smile even harder. “Nothing!” he says amusedly, with a tiny laugh. Murphy was so paranoid for someone who seems so confident.  
“Well, you look like you were going to kiss me.”  
“Maybe I was.” Bellamy’s words burn in throat, like he took another shot of whiskey. That’s probably why he’s acting so bold; he would never normally do something like this. Murphy’s eyes widen playfully. “Oh. Well, why don’t you then?” he challenges, tilting back to say “come and get me.” Bellamy wishes he was more drunk. Super-drunk Bellamy would tip right in and make out with Murphy right there on the spot. But he was just normal-drunk Bellamy, which came along with pressing anxiety and lingering internal-homophobia. So he just stared back at Murphy wistfully.  
“Go on. Do it.” Murphy butts his shoulder into Bellamy playfully.  
“Um, no I can’t - I can’t do it. Not here.” He breaks their stare and looks back down at the last shot glass, innocently tempting Bellamy to drink it. He says _fuck it_ in his mind, and downs the alcohol, leaving him with a tingly feeling and the metallic taste of regret. Murphy must’ve seen this, and he leans in to yell, “Do you wanna get the hell out of here?”  
“What do you mean?” Bellamy says thickly. Oh god, he’s had too much alcohol.  
“Do you. Want to. Get the hell out of here?” Murphy enunciates, pressing into Bellamy’s shoulder. Bellamy sniggers. “Um, don’t we have to, like, say goodbye to everyone? Won’t your friends be pissed if you just shove me out the door?”  
“Nah, I don’t do goodbyes.” Murphy says matter-of-factly and sits back in his chair. “Besides, they’re all just essentially idiots. Gay idiots who dance pretty well.” God, Murphy is so fucking pretentious that Bellamy snorts. “Emori wasn’t an idiot, though. I liked talking to her,” he protests.  
“Yeah, yeah, she’s probably the smartest out of our group. She’s a crafty little bugger, that one.” Murphy pushes back his chair, signifying that it’s actually time to leave. “She’ll understand if we leave, so _let’s go_!” So Bellamy goes.

The subway is uneventful on the way back, which is strange considering it’s about 10:00 at night in New York. They don’t really talk much, just a few smiles here and there, and the overwhelming urge to hold Murphy’s hand takes over Bellamy at one point. But he remembers who this is, and decides against it. The two men walk up from the subway into the fairly crowded streets, and it’s not until then when Murphy speaks.  
“I honestly can’t wait to get the fuck out of here,” he proclaims, dodging a pile of what looks like mattress foam by the curb.  
“No you don’t. Not actually.” From what Bellamy has seen of Murphy, he seems like the kind of person who says things just to say them, and not actually because he believes them.  
“Nah, maybe I don’t. But I feel like some angsty teen again that’s trapped in a town that they hate. And my friends, god, they’re wonderful, but I’ve had them for too long. D’you know what I mean?” Murphy looks expectantly at him. Bellamy thinks for a moment before responding, “Um, not really. If you love your friends, how can you have them for too long? That doesn’t make sense to me.” He steps carefully over a pothole in the sidewalk. “If anything, that should make you love them more.”  
“They - they just feel almost like a noose around my neck. Like, ugh,” Murphy groans and stops abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk. “It’s like they’ve sealed you in concrete as one version of yourself and as soon as you try to change, they just encase you in more!”  
“And that’s a bad thing?”  
Murphy gives him that classic glare. “Of course it fucking is! I don’t want to be in concrete!” he explodes. “As soon as they see you trying to remold yourself, they stop you and drag you back into an old version of yourself! Or the version they want to see, for that matter,” he adds, and takes a deep breath, but Bellamy cuts him off. “You know that’s not true Murphy.” His voice is stern and commanding, drawing the attention of some of the people around them. Car and street lights flit across Murphy’s concentrated face as he starts up again.  
“Yes, it’s true! They want you to stay in the shitty pool of the past!” Realization dawns on Bellamy like a cold shower. “Ohhh, so that’s what this is. You’re trying to pull yourself out of the shitty pool of the past.” He points a finger accusingly at Murphy, who runs a hand through his hair and sighs. “What I’m trying to do is I’m trying to redraw myself.”  
“Yeah, you being the artist that you are.” Bellamy grins, moving closer to Murphy so a lady carrying an inordinate amount of bags can get past.  
“Yeah, but everyone keeps stealing my pencils,” Murphy says, mostly joking but with a slight twinge of bitterness. Bellamy laughs loudly at this and begins to walk again. “Oh my god Murphy. You’re something else,” he mutters half to himself. They stroll for the rest of the time home in silence, brushing together slightly and then immediately pulling apart. Bellamy would make some analogy about how they’re like two ships at sea, almost meeting, but never reaching the other one in time, but he’s really fucking drunk.

Bellamy had no idea that Murphy could laugh like that. He’s shrieking with laughter, and Bellamy’s honestly worried that the neighbors are going to come knocking, thinking that someone’s getting murdered. Murphy pulls himself together for long enough to cough out, “Oh my god, I can’t believe how much gel was in your hair! Fuck me, you must’ve run the stores out of business, buying all of that hair gel, oh my _GOD_!” Murphy doubles over in laughter, dropping the picture of teenage Bellamy on the floor, who did have an inordinate amount of hair gel in.  
“Shut up, Murphy, I thought it was cool and edgy, ok?” Bellamy complains, shoving Murphy lightly. This only makes Murphy laugh harder, and soon it makes Bellamy break into giggles. “That’s even funnier, that you thought you were cool, ha!” Murphy pats Bellamy on the chest with tears of mirth in his eyes. “Oh, you were just the coolest in high school, don’t worry Bellamy.” With one last laugh, he leaves to go to the kitchen and Bellamy just stands there, slightly offended. “Hey, Mr. Hair Gel, you got any good food?”  
And of course, Bellamy has about two actually edible food items in his pantry, so Murphy settles for some toast. Even though Bellamy is the intoxicated one, Murphy acts like a damn drunken fool, jumping when the toast pops up, laughing hysterically when Bellamy trips over his own feet, and getting butter all over his hands. They’re still giggling when Bellamy says, “Um, there’s something I didn’t tell you today. Or, at all actually.” Murphy’s face immediately goes blank. “Do you have a boyfriend?” he deadpans and then takes a huge bite of toast.  
“Yeah, I have a boyfriend, and you’re just my side bitch,” Bellamy retorts back. Murphy rolls his eyes, but gestures for Bellamy to continue.  
“No, um, I don’t have a boyfriend. But, y’know your tape project?”  
“Yeah, go on.” There is nothing but the sound of Murphy munching the toast for a second.  
“Well, I have something kind of similar,” Bellamy says rather quickly, and busies himself with a bag of chips. “Except mine’s private, unlike your giant art project.” He shoves a handful of the chips into his mouth.  
“Well, well, Bellamy. I’m in shock!”  
“Oh fuck off, I don’t know why I’m even telling you this.” Bellamy avoids looking at Murphy, who moves closer. “Well, then why do you do it?” He squints at the other man and tilts his head expectantly, making Bellamy shift uncomfortably.  
“I - I don’t know. I just do it.” Bellamy throws some more chips into his mouth and walks back into the living room. He really shouldn’t have told Murphy about his stupid project, because he fucking knew better. He knew that Murphy would beg and plead and cajole him into reading the entries. And sure enough, Bellamy ends up ensconced on the floor next to Murphy, his laptop up on the coffee table. Murphy had asked him to read the most interesting entries, so Bellamy did.  
“He was really striking and pretty normal, so I was happy with him. Um, then when he told me about the time he came out, his parents were really offended. He said he didn’t care, but it was really obvious that he did. One of those overly stoic guys, I suppose.” Bellamy recites, reading an account from a little over six months ago. Murphy’s legs are bent in front of him, and he picks at the growing-hole in the knee. Bellamy continues, “Um, but he kept going on and on about his ex, though.” Murphy visibly winces. “Ooh,” he comments. “That’s always a bad sign.”  
“Yeah, his ex was some Asian guy, who, and I quote, ‘had swooshy hair that always fell in the right direction and the cutest, tiniest face.’” Bellamy grins.  
“Fucking hell,” Murphy laughs sharply. “That’s the most sappy thing I’ve ever heard!”  
“Yeah, I know, right? I wanted Clarke to be there so bad because she would have thought that it was hilarious. I knew that I couldn’t see him again because he obviously wasn’t over his ex, but I stayed the night because I didn’t want him to, uh, feel bad.” Bellamy reads, and Murphy makes a sarcastic cooing noise.  
“Aw, how nice,” he giggles and flops back onto the couch. “What a gentleman you are Bellamy Blake.” The other man rolls his eyes and scrolls through some of his other accounts. “Oh, this one’s real fucked up.”  
“Read.” Murphy stays with his back on the couch, staring up at the ceiling.  
“Ok, so, this one’s from a couple years ago, back when I wasn’t the stunning picture of confidence I am now.”  
Murphy snorts from his position. Bellamy proceeds, “So, I was at a party with someone I didn’t really know. This older man came up to me, um, basically seduced me, and brought me into the bathroom. He wouldn’t let me kiss or touch him, all he wanted to do was give me a blowjob. He still wouldn’t let me get that close to him, and then he left. I saw him later at the party, but he completely ignored me and wouldn’t even acknowledge I was there.” Murphy had lifted his head up at some point and was staring at Bellamy with a blank expression. He carries on reading, “Um, it was then that I noticed he had a wedding ring on. And I felt so bad and guilty, but also for him, because I kept thinking about his wife and kids, if they were waiting for him at home and he was late to say goodnight because he was, um, sucking me off.” Bellamy’s voice cracks near the end, and he looks straight down at the floor. Murphy is still peering at him, and it’s right then that Bellamy knows he’ll never forgive himself for this weekend and for showing Murphy these parts of him that are never unseeable.

“He was really beautiful,” Murphy reads off of the computer, squinting in the harsh light. It’s very dark outside now, and Murphy has been silently reading through the entries in Bellamy’s journal, if you could even call it that. _It’s much too perverted to be a journal_ , Bellamy thinks to himself. Murphy must have found an entry that intrigues him, because he began to read it aloud. “I’ve called him Alexander Mcqueen because that was the brand of cologne he was wearing and because I can’t remember his real name.” Murphy lets out a soft laugh while Bellamy tucks his head into his hands. God, he’s so tired. But Murphy persists, “He had a tiny little flat near the park and I think he was studying something to do with space. Whatever it was, it was way too deep and complicated for me. He once told me that his parents were perfectly fine with his sexuality.” Murphy’s face slowly grows more and more grave as he reads on. “He asked if he could top, but I’d never done it before, so I told him I was too scared. He proceeded to get pissed at me, but eventually he agreed to bottom. I thought he was a bit too rough, but at least he wasn’t into watersports or something. I tried to get his number, but he said he had a boyfriend and refused to give it to me.” Murphy swallows roughly, which makes Bellamy more than concerned. “On the way back, I felt so shitty and awful. It was all I could think about and I vowed to make sure that any man I was hooking up with did not have a significant other.” He finishes the entry and Bellamy watches him closely. Murphy closes the laptop with precision and rubs at his eyes.  
“You probably think I’m an awful person now,” Bellamy says anxiously.  
“Nah, I always thought you were an awful person,” Murphy replies with a shaky smile. He gets up slowly and sits next to Bellamy on the floor. “Um, what did this guy look like?” he asks, picking at his fingernails.  
“Why?”  
“No fucking reason at all.”  
“Uh, I don’t know,” Bellamy massages the back of his neck. “He had long, brown hair right above his shoulders.” Murphy doesn’t visibly react to this for a bit. He takes a few moments before saying, “You’re gonna get a kick out of this.”  
“Who? Who is this guy?” Bellamy raises his voice slightly. Murphy finally looks up, with such a strange look on his face.  
“His name isn’t Alexander, it’s Finn.” They sit in the silence that comes after a bomb blast, with nothing but roaring silence in their ears. “Fuck, I knew Emori couldn’t keep her mouth shut.” Murphy sighs and leans into Bellamy. “Don’t - don’t say anything. You,” he breathes out. “You don’t need to. I know already. I know.”

“Straight people! Now that’s a disease with no cure!” Bellamy winces at the shrillness of Murphy’s voice. “They’re perfectly fine with us queers until we’re too political or one of us breaks their precious gender roles.”  
“But I’m not like that! I don’t do any of that!”  
“Well, you should at least be political about it! Fucking shove it down their throats that you’re gay!” Murphy gestures wildly around Bellamy’s head. The other man sighs. “Why do I have to though?”  
“Because they shove it down our throats! It’s straight everything, straight TV tropes, straight movies, straight books, billboards, magazines! The heterosexuals are everywhere, Bellamy!” Bellamy opens his mouth to retort but Murphy starts up again. “Oh! But the gays, oh no,” he says, dripping in acidic sarcasm. “We can’t offend the straights, shh! Oh, there’s a hetero, we can’t upset them! Stop kissing, stop holding hands, ooh, can’t be too feminine! Let’s hide in our gay underground tunnels!” Bellamy sniggers, shaking his head. The edges of his living room are fuzzy and drowning in light and Murphy’s face seems warped. “But if the straights are everywhere how the hell are we supposed to change that? What are you going to change?” he inquires, and Murphy gets a very intense look on his face. It makes Bellamy think that maybe he shouldn’t have asked that.  
“We can change it, that’s the whole point! We have the chance to start over, to plant a new garden in the world! And we can put a fucking rainbow of colors in there! Let’s make all of the pride flags out of flowers, who the fuck knows? We’ll have some trans gnomes and everything! The straights just have some concrete parking lot that isn’t malleable!” Murphy is alive with electricity, his expressions snapping and changing quickly. Bellamy almost doesn’t breathe when watching him, but replies, “Why the fuck do you think that everyone’s trying to put you in concrete?”  
Murphy laughs loudly, but exasperated. “But why would you want concrete, when you can have whatever you want?”

Bellamy’s bed is so soft, so nice. He scrunches the pillows so he can still sit up and also maybe sleep, but Murphy’s still going strong, so he doesn’t think that’s going to happen. “Anyway, I’m not saying that relationships are bad, I’m just saying that people shouldn’t have to sanction them to make it legitimate and respectable.”  
“Oh heaven forbid we become respectable in society!” Bellamy shoots back derisively. Murphy rolls his eyes.  
“But don’t you tell me that people actually get married for love. Don’t even.” He points sharply at Bellamy. “People get married for the same reason they go buy a goddamn house, so they can be tied down! And they don’t have to fight and move around and they can be bored!”  
“Murphy, maybe people just want to settle down-”  
“But where’s their fight?” Murphy interrupts. “I know that now in America it’s gotten so much better for the queer community, but fuck, it’s not over! Not by a long shot!”  
“But the cause they're fighting for is a cause you don’t believe in!” Bellamy accentuates, actually sitting up now so he and Murphy are face to face. Both of their expressions are tightly wound; ready to spring at any moment.  
“That’s not the point!” Murphy practically yells.  
“Yes! Yes it is!” God, he really hates Murphy for getting him so riled up. Bellamy runs his hand through his hair. “When a man stands up there, with another man, in front of everyone, and proclaiming their love for each other and saying they want to get married, that’s a pretty good radical statement!” He smacks his hand down on the bed for emphasis. “If two men or two women or two whatever gender people stand up there and say ‘I want to spend the rest of my life with you’ when there’s people out in the crowd saying, ‘it’s wrong, it’s inhumane, it’s sick,’ I think that’s pretty amazing!” Bellamy pauses to let Murphy talk, but the other man just sits there, peering up at Bellamy, so he continues. “Murphy, there’s people saying that we’re destined for hell. Fucking actual hell!” Bellamy’s voice rises a couple octaves. “Hell, Murphy like who - who says that? So I think that when a gay couple or whatever couple that’s not straight and cisgender get married, it’s like a big ‘fuck you!’ That’s pretty amazing.” He breathes out roughly, but Murphy still looks distressed, his hands fisting at the sheets.  
“But why do people have to feed into the system?” Bellamy about loses it at this. “For fucks sake Murphy, now you sound like an angsty teenager! About a minute ago, you asked me if people got married because they love each other, right?” Murphy nods in validation, now looking down at the sheets and blankets twisted around them, his body coiled with unspoken arguments. “Well, maybe they do love each other! Maybe they really are in love and they really do want to spend the rest of their lives together!” Bellamy takes a rattling breath. “And yeah, they might be destined for divorce or some shit, but who cares? Who gives a _fuck_? If they want to be a happy couple, to get married, to have kids, to own a house, who cares? Like why,” he struggles. “Why do you care so much? Why can’t you just let people be happy, for god’s sake?” His deep voice echoes throughout the room, seeming to fill up every crevice with the unanswered question that will never fully be answered. Murphy doesn’t speak, but just sits there with no expression and a mind full of things that Bellamy could never understand, even if Murphy explained them until his voice was gone.

They keep moving around Bellamy’s apartment for some reason. He doesn’t know why and he can’t remember. It’s like one second they’re staring at each other in the kitchen and then the next, they’re shouting on the couch. That’s what they’re actually doing right now, and Bellamy keeps realizing how goddamn stubborn Murphy is.  
“So, you honestly think that you’re going to be perfectly fine in Manchester? All by yourself, with no friends, and nothing to do? Murphy, you’re going to go fucking nuts!”  
“I’m going to be fine and you’re wrong,” Murphy mumbles into the sleeve of his sweater.  
“God, there you go again.” Bellamy hasn’t this kind of patience in a while. “You’re always condescending, fuck, it’s like every sentence is you trying to attack me-”  
“I’m not attacking you!” Murphy’s voice is defensive and poised, which just seems even more like an attack.  
“Yes, you fucking are! You’re so contradictory! It’s like - like you want everyone to be an independent thinker but you want everyone to also agree with you!” Bellamy stares hard at Murphy, his breathing getting more ragged. “Like, why can’t you just accept that some people want to simply be happy?”  
“Are you happy?”  
Well, fuck. Bellamy thought that Murphy had asked some artless questions in the past, but this one takes the fucking cake. He scrutinizes Murphy for a long moment, and Murphy looks right back at him. “I’m fine,” Bellamy says, meaning it to be strong and affirming, but his voice has a shaky undertone, belying his words. “I mean, yeah, everything’s not perfect. Things could be,” Bellamy searches for the right word, breathing audible and unsteady. “Things could be easier. But I’m perfectly fine.”  
“Sure you are.”  
Bellamy’s vision honestly goes black for a second. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he spits with poison and contempt. “Don’t you fucking dare think that you understand me.”  
Murphy shifts forward placidly towards Bellamy. “Calm down,” he says in a much quieter tone, but Bellamy ignores him, his blood roaring into overdrive.  
“Just because I can’t walk around on the streets holding hands, kissing a guy, or even talking to my goddamn friends about sucking some guy’s dick does _not_ mean you know me.”  
“No it doesn’t.” Murphy sighs softly and doesn’t break eye contact with the other man.  
“No, no, but I can see it Murphy. I can see it in everything that you do, that you think I’m a huge idiot. Because I actually want a relationship. Because I want some happiness in my life, since apparently I’m not even _fine_ , according to you.” Bellamy hisses, his voice deep with anger and something so visceral he can’t even place it.  
“I never said that.” Murphy tilts his head even closer, his persona so soft and fragile compared to Bellamy’s right now. They haven’t broken eye contact yet.  
“But the thing is Murphy,” Bellamy speaks, his voice quieting down with every word. “The thing is, I think you want a relationship too.” Bellamy doubts that he’ll ever forget the way Murphy’s eyes look right now, when he’s in this vulnerable, open state. Murphy’s gaze shifts from Bellamy’s own eyes to his lips to his nose and back to his eyes. Murphy breathes out quietly, and says, “I think that you’d make an amazing boyfriend-”  
Bellamy’s sharp inhale cuts him off. “That’s not,” he exhales, still observing Murphy’s every movement. “That’s not what I’m saying.” Murphy rolls his eyes while Bellamy persists.  
“It’s not about me, god, fuck me.” He freezes for a split second, because jesus, that’s not how it was supposed to come out. But they are even closer now, and Bellamy’s vision is nothing but Murphy.  
“I don’t want a relationship,” Murphy enunciates clearly, his gaze challenging.  
“Look, I know Finn messed you up but-”  
“You better stop talking right now before this goes somewhere you don’t want it to go,” Murphy snaps so angrily that Bellamy stops his entire monologue. But he’s still drunk, and way out of his head, so he starts up again. “I know he cheated on you, and cheated, and cheated! Fuck, he even got beaten up in a park!” he exclaims, right at the same time that Murphy spits, “You don’t know anything about me and Finn.” Bellamy stops to let Murphy let out his argument.  
“You don’t know anything about my feelings, you don’t know how I feel about how he cheated on me. For the goddamn record, I don’t care that he cheated on me. I. Don’t. Give. A shit.” Murphy punctuates each word with a snarl. Bellamy tries to get a word in but Murphy stops him in his tracks. “Look. Look at me. I can’t have a boyfriend right now.” Murphy says each word clearly and richly, capturing Bellamy’s eyesight with his tense body language. Bellamy doesn’t move; he can’t move. He just sits there, silent under Murphy’s classic laser-edged glare. “And there’s nothing left to say about it.” Murphy swallows hard. “Look, I don’t want us to fall out over this. I - I really don’t” Bellamy is silent, his gaze finally drifting away and down to his lap. Somewhere in this whole jumble of words and emotions spilt, Murphy’s hand had moved to grip onto Bellamy’s forearm. He takes a shaky breath.  
“I have to go to the toilet.” Bellamy whispers. “Um, I have to go to the toilet.” He gets up abruptly, knocking Murphy’s hand away. The floor creaks as Bellamy basically flees, leaving Murphy staring at the living room table with nothing but the skeletons of their conversation and a twist of emotions that he has no instructions on how to untangle.

The cold water from the sink does nothing to help Bellamy’s head focus. He stares at his reflection in the mirror, noting his wide pupils in his dark eyes, his hair that is more curl than anything, and his flushed cheeks. “Fuck,” he whispers, his voice sounding so fucking pathetic. He takes refuge in the bathroom for a couple more minutes, knowing that he’s going to have to come out eventually and see Murphy. Even though they cracked each other’s ribcages wide open and pulled out every emotion hidden deep down, he still knows that they will both be able to heal together. He will seal every fracture in Murphy’s body, because that’s the only thing he can do. There is music now playing outside of the bathroom, and the thought of Murphy searching through his music makes him smile slightly. When he walks back into the living room, Chopin is filling the silence that had once taken over the room. Bellamy walks over to where Murphy is leaning out the window, looking at the world from a distance. He doesn’t look at Murphy quite yet.  
“Chopin?” he asks, breathing in the cold air.  
“Hey, it was from your music collection.” The piano notes accompany Murphy’s voice, floating out the window and softening their view of the world.  
“Hey, I’m really sorry,” Bellamy sighs. “I was an idiot and I’m sorry about that.”  
“It’s alright.” Murphy picks at his fingernails. “Probably too much alcohol.” Both him and Bellamy know that Bellamy wasn’t that drunk anymore, but they didn’t say anything.  
“Yeah, blame it on the alcohol. The alcohol and the drugs.” They both grin at this, but still don’t look at each other.  
“Hey, so why are you straightedge?” Bellamy asks, finally glancing over at Murphy, who pulls the sleeves of his sweater over his hands. When Murphy replies, Bellamy is honestly surprised that he’s actually getting an answer.  
“Fuck, well, my dad died as you know, and um,” Murphy fiddles with his sleeves. “After that my mom turned to the alcohol and drugs. The bitch drank herself dead and then had the nerve to blame me for my dad’s death.” His laugh is bitter. “So I said ‘fuck it’ and knew that I would never become like my mother. I could never become like her. I’d never do that to the people I love.” The music is so beautiful that it doesn’t seem appropriate for Murphy’s words. Bellamy doesn’t respond verbally, but simply puts his hand over Murphy’s, unspokenly reassuring him. He strokes Murphy’s thumb, each finger, the back of his hand, memorizing every feature. Murphy slowly steps in to put his other hand behind Bellamy’s head and pulls him in and they’re kissing. It’s so soft that Bellamy almost melts into nothing. They break apart for a second, pressing their foreheads together until they kiss again, moving their lips against the other’s, Murphy’s hand tangling into Bellamy’s curls. The softness and tentativeness is slowly overcome by visceral feelings, and their mouths and breathing moves faster. Bellamy’s hand clutches at the back of Murphy’s sweater, trying to sense as many things as he can so nothing will ever fade away. There are tongues now, sliding over and inside, marrying their emotions to their actions. It’s not until Murphy’s mouth is on Bellamy’s neck, burning hot and sweet that Bellamy gasps, “Bedroom,” and they stumble back into the room, hands cloying underneath their clothing. Nothing matters, nothing can possibly come close to the sight of Murphy smiling, chest bare and hair in his eyes, when Bellamy kisses under his jaw. It’s so fucking beautiful and cliche that Bellamy wants to throw out every other memory so there’s nothing left but this moment for him to hold close forever. And everything’s not ok, everything is far from ok, and Bellamy can still feel it, after they have both been used up and empty. When they kiss again, the sheets a nexus around them, Bellamy can _feel_ how so fucked up everything is again. And he doubts it will ever be ok, that he will ever be able to fully heal them. Murphy sighs, his breath ghosting over Bellamy’s face as they lay back and close their eyes. Maybe they don’t need healing. Maybe being damaged is perfect.

“Y’know, I’m perfectly ok and comfortable when I’m at home,” Bellamy croaks into Murphy’s neck. The pale, weak light of dawn filters through the window, making Bellamy shut his eyes.  
“Perfectly ok?” Murphy repeats, his lips barely moving against Bellamy’s forehead.  
“Yeah. When I’m at home, I - I don’t want to be straight. I’m not ashamed. It doesn’t matter that I’m gay here; nothing matters.”  
“But?” Murphy questions, his eyes still closed like he’s asleep. Bellamy swallows loudly.  
“But when I finally come out of my little paradise here, like when I go to work or to the grocery store, I, um. It’s hard to explain, the feeling I get. It kinda feels like I’m actually, physically sick.” He inhales loudly and breathes out against Murphy, trying to find the right words. “It makes me so angry. _I_ make myself angry because I’m so pitiful. Like, you’re an adult just like me, and I look at you and you can be so openly gay in public and you’re just _amazing_.”  
Murphy shifts slightly at this, his hand coming up to rest on the side of Bellamy’s face. He continues, his voice breaking. “I just don’t understand why I can’t.”  
Murphy doesn’t move for a while. They stay pressed up against each other, feeling the other’s breathing and sighing, not speaking. Murphy eventually places a kiss on Bellamy’s forehead, rolling over so they’re face to face, heads on the individual pillows.  
“You know your journal-diary thing?” Murphy’s voice is sleep-heavy and rough.  
“Yeah, what about it?”  
“Well,” Murphy tucks his head into the crook of his elbow. “You focus a lot on their coming out, like what their parents think and how confident they are in their sexuality, all that kind of stuff. I just wanted to know why.” He tilts his head into the pillow, awaiting the other man’s response. Bellamy sighs through his nose, closing his eyes again.  
“I don’t know, um, it’s kind of like everyone’s got their own different experience with coming out and what the response was to it. Each experience is a different story and I like that.”  
“But you don’t have one.”  
Bellamy shrugs, his voice deep and rough. “I guess not.” Murphy is silent for a moment.  
“Do you ever want to find your parents?” he finally asks. His hand somehow had moved from under the sheets to fall lightly onto Bellamy’s, being uncharacteristically gentle.  
“Um,” Bellamy reaches up to rub his eyes with his free hand. “No, not ever really.”  
“Why not?”  
“I just, I just don’t really see the point. I mean, it won’t help anything. It’s not like that’ll magically fix everything.”  
Murphy doesn’t reply right away, but gets this shifty smirk on his face. He reaches up farther to stroke Bellamy’s cheek. “What if,” he mumbles. “What if I act as your dad-”  
Bellamy snorts disbelievingly at this, but Murphy continues. “And you can come out to me.” Bellamy grins widely. God, he should have expected something like this. “That’s such a weird thing to do,” he laughs quietly, as Murphy plucks an eyelash off his cheek.  
“Just ignore that bit where we just had sex,” he says unabashed. Bellamy shakes his head, saying, “Come on Murphy, I don’t think I can-”  
“Oh, just try it.” They grin at each other for a second before Bellamy clears his throat.  
“Ok, ok.” He shifts uncomfortably against the bed, shuffling and blinking hard at Murphy, who just sits and grins at him. “Dad,” he says with uncertainty. God, this is strange. “I have something I want to tell you.”  
“Go ahead, son,” Murphy says, clearly having too much fun, but also strangely attentive.  
“Um, I’m gay.”  
Murphy raises his eyebrows in mock surprise, blinking hard. He makes a “hmm” noise as Bellamy continues, “I’m into guys not girls.” The other man nods silently, taking this too seriously but also just seriously enough. Murphy caresses the side of Bellamy’s face and states, “Well son, it doesn’t matter to me at all. I still love you just the same.” His thumb swirls a pattern into Bellamy’s skin. “And I couldn’t be more proud of you,” he smiles softly. “Then if you were the first man on the moon.”

It’s fully daylight now. Bellamy has to blink hard to get the sunlight out of his eyes as he untangles himself from the sheets and rolls over to check on Murphy, but his presence on the side of the bed has been replaced by empty sheets and the sharp, comforting smell of coffee. Bellamy props himself up blearily as Murphy strolls into the bedroom, complete with two cups of coffee. It’s like a bizarre, deja vu scenario from the first time they met, but their roles switched. God, was that only yesterday? It feels like an immeasurable amount of time that happened outside of their existence.  
“Made you coffee,” Murphy states the obvious, walking with care to sit down and hand one mug to Bellamy. He takes it gratefully and leans back into the pillow.  
“So, what are you doing today?” Murphy questions, blowing on his mug.  
“Uh,” Bellamy scrubs at his eyes. His hangover headache is raging strong, which did nothing to help him think. “I have to go over to Clarke’s today. It’s her daughter’s birthday, and she’s my goddaughter, so y’know.”  
“Ah, godfather duties. Got it.” There is a warm silence, but it’s tinged with awkwardness and something unidentifiable. Bellamy closes his eyes; the light is too bright for him to function properly.  
“So, um, what time’s your train today?” Bellamy asks, knowing that there’s no use ignoring the subject. Murphy snorts, “Why, you gonna come and serenade me goodbye? Or beg and plead me to stay?” Bellamy lets out a pained, barely-there laugh.  
“No, I’m not gonna do any of that.”  
Murphy takes a staged sip of his coffee before replying, “It’s at 4:30.” He shifts his weight and hops off the bed, searching for his jeans as if to put a stopper on the conversation. Bellamy watches him get dressed, like an odd, reverse strip tease. Murphy shrugs on his plain black sweater, which has multiple holes in it and even though it would probably look like a goddamn crop top on Bellamy, he has the strangest urge to steal it, just so he can keep Murphy on him like a second skin. Murphy stands there with uncertainty for a second, holding his shoes, but then sits back down next to Bellamy on the bed. He doesn’t look at the other man, not until Bellamy says weakly, “Murphy-”  
“Shhh,” Murphy cuts him off. He looks Bellamy right in the eye, saying a million things but also nothing at all at the same time. He kisses him, closed-mouth and soft, and then he’s gone. Again. He left Bellamy alone again to watch him walk away from Bellamy’s apartment building. This time though, he stops and looks back up at that fourteenth floor window, like he can feel Bellamy’s eyes tugging at his back. For a second he stops. But eventually, he continues walking away and away and away.

Seeing Clarke’s house again is like putting on an old t-shirt that you used to wear a lot. It still fits, but only provides you with that nostalgic sense, but that’s why you like it. He knocks on the door, which has a bright, flashy decorative “Happy Birthday!” sign on it. Lexa answers the door this time, her eyes wide with happiness.  
“Bellamy, oh wow!” she exclaims, leaning in to hug him. He returns it, but when she pulls away, her face is wrinkled and concerned. “Ugh, I hate to say this but you smell like whiskey, Bellamy Blake.” He winces.  
“Oh god, sorry about that,” he apologizes, but Lexa has already moved on.  
“It’s fine, it’s fine. I’m just happy that you’re able to make it, though! Come in!” The house is loud with youthful energy, streamers and crushed goldfish crackers littering the floor. He can hear Clarke’s voice, instructing the kids on how to play Twister.  
“Look who’s here everyone!” Lexa announces, and everyone’s heads immediately turn towards Bellamy, except for the little kids, who are too busy falling on each other to care about this giant man who just walked in. Clarke’s face, however, lights up. “Bellamy!” she exclaims, and gets up to hug him. “Oh, I’m so happy to see you! Anya!” she calls back at the mess of kids in the middle of the room. “Look who made it! Oh, and with a present!”  
Bellamy makes a big deal out of the gift, teasing Clarke’s little girl by taking it away and giving it back, ruffles her hair, and goes to sit down on the couch with the rest of the adults. He observes the party happen around him, but not really paying any attention. The parents help and laugh at the children, who ultimately fail at playing Twister, but find it hilarious whenever someone falls over. He feels like a giant asshole, but nothing seems to be sticking in his mind except for him. He’s everywhere, in the iridescent blue wrapping paper that for some fucking reason looks exactly like his eyes, in the children’s five-second attention span, even in the simple energy of the party. Murphy is everywhere and it makes Bellamy want to slap himself upside the head. He hates himself for it, but he can’t focus on one goddamn thing. He smiles back at Anya when she shrieks a laugh when her hoola hoop keeps falling down, but nothing stays in his mind. When the kids inevitably run out of energy, he offers to help clean up, since there are food and cups and cake everywhere. When Bellamy’s washing out a apple juice-sticky cup, he can hear how fucking happy everyone is in the room. Murphy’s stupid comment about how Bellamy’s not happy sneaks into his thoughts and he immediately says a “Fuck you” to Murphy in his head. Why can’t Murphy just shut the hell up and go away?

Clarke eventually corners him outside the bathroom when he claims that he needs to go to the toilet for the third time.  
“Ok, what’s up?” she questions, leaning against the wall. Bellamy shakes his head, knowing that Clarke would alway catch on to his problems.  
“Nothing, nothing’s wrong.” He shrugs, but he knows that his face is belying everything he says. “Bullshit, there’s obviously something wrong,” Clarke says firmly. “Come on, you know you can tell me anything.” Bellamy smiles sadly, and sighs. “I know, I know, but I’m not even sure what’s wrong, really.”  
“Well, talk to me,” Clarke reaffirms, gesturing exasperatedly. “It can’t hurt.” Bellamy looks away from her, sighing again. “It’s - it’s stupid really. The guy I met, the one I went out with last night, I met him two days ago. Two days ago, Clarke.” He takes a shuddering breath, the words spilling out of their own accord. “Two days is nothing. And maybe it’s because I’m hungover and tired and a hopeless romantic, but I feel like such an idiot. And he’s leaving today too, oh god.” Bellamy runs a hand over his face, still not making eye contact with Clarke. She exhales, saying gently, “Well, you’ll see him when he comes back, won’t you?”  
“He’s, uh.” The corners of Bellamy’s mouth twitch. “He’s not coming back. He’s moving to Manchester and that’s that.” He look away from the floor, he can’t look at Clarke, he absolutely can’t.  
“Well what time is he leaving?” She steps closer to Bellamy. “I’ll take you-”  
“No, no, no. It doesn’t even matter Clarke, fuck, you have to be here! What about Lexa, Anya? It’s my goddaughter’s birthday, for god’s sake!”  
“Don’t worry about that Bellamy! Lexa’s got it covered, and besides, it’ll only take about a half an hour!” Clarke exclaims, putting a comforting arm on his shoulder. Bellamy finally looks up at her, to see her wide eyes and insistent stance. “C’mon, I’ll take you in the car,” she pronounces.  
They stare resiliently at each other, Bellamy’s jaw clenching with bottled tension. Murphy’s going to get a kick out of this one.

People have the strangest changes in their nature. One minute they’re perfectly nice and helpful, but throw them in a crowded, anxious train station and everyone goes a bit nuts. Bellamy shoves his way past the herds of people, hurrying but not hurrying, looking nonchalant but having a panic attack at the same time. He makes it to the entrance to all of the platforms, knowing that Murphy will come through here. He can’t find him just yet though, so he buys a latte for the heck of it. Caffeine is probably not the best idea, since his palms are already so sweaty and his stomach feels like it’s about to drop to the floor. Bellamy constantly scans the crowd of blurry faces, looking for pale skin, a black sweater, something that is Murphy. It’s 4:10 when Murphy arrives, wearing some intense dark, spikey jacket and a suitcase clicking behind him. Bellamy doesn’t really feel anything in this moment, he’s almost too numb to breathe actually. Murphy spots him through a couple hugging and a lady holding flowers and making eye contact with him is like a taser in his side, jolting all of his emotions back into his body at once. Murphy’s expression is one of “I knew it” but also one of relief.  
“Such a goddamn romantic,” Murphy declares when they finally reach each other, and hands Bellamy one of his bags. “I knew you’d be here. I fucking knew.” And they walk to the platform without saying anything else.  
“This isn’t going to be like an ending to some romantic straight movie, is it?” Murphy asks as they traipse through the walkways.  
“I don’t know, I’ve never seen any of those.”  
“Yeah, me neither, but I imagine the couple kisses while crying, everyone applauds while crying, and they live happily ever after while crying.” Bellamy laughs at this, shifting the bag to his other shoulder. “Do you think that would happen to us?” he wonders, looking at Murphy amusedly, who shrugs.  
“I mean we can give it a try, but they’d probably either clap or throw us under the train.” He looks away from Bellamy, with a crooked, bittersweet smile on his face and walks even faster towards the platform. Bellamy swallows down his millions of responses and follows him into a place that he knows he’ll never return from, but fuck, he couldn’t turn around even if he wanted to.

It’s fairly cold out when the wind blows, with an icy edge to it. Bellamy sets down Murphy’s bag on the concrete, tugging his jacket sleeves down over his hands. They face each other, and Bellamy feels like he could crumble at any minute and blow away with the wind. Two pasty teenagers walk past them, and he can see the knowing judgement on their face. It makes him angry, but the anger is overwhelmed by a sea of other emotions. They keep staring at each other, the ground, the approaching train, until it’s all too much for Bellamy. “Murphy,” his voice cracks roughly. “Murphy, you have to listen to me. I want to explain so much to you, there’s so much I have to say, oh god, listen-”  
“Bellamy, Bellamy! Stop,” Murphy says over him, his voice so commanding but desperate. “Just. Don’t.”  
“No, you have to know,” Bellamy runs his hands through his hair, his frustration coursing through every muscle. Murphy mirrors his movement, brushing his longer hair out of his eyes roughly and accompanied by a “Fuck!” He ducks his head down. “You’re a giant asshole for coming down here Bellamy,” Murphy hisses. Oh god, oh god, oh god. Murphy’s body actually shakes, his thin frame rocking back and forth with suppressed tears. “Fuck!” he whispers again and Bellamy takes him into a hug, their first proper hug. Bellamy’s heart feels heavy and wild as he embraces him, his anxiety flaring. He can see them from an outsider’s perspective. Two men, one tall and tan, one pale and smaller, hugging each other so tightly that one might be worried the smaller one would be crushed. Murphy’s sobs echo in Bellamy’s ear, and he never wants to let Murphy go. He never wants to end this, because it’s their bodies are melding into one, Bellamy’s chin melting into Murphy’s shoulder and their arms pressing into each other’s backs like they’re wax figures. Holding Murphy so close like this makes every fracture and bone poke out sharply to Bellamy and it completely ruins him. It ruins him to think that he will never get the chance to heal Murphy, to fix every cracked rib, and Murphy takes a hollow, shuddering breath in Bellamy’s ear.  
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Murphy admits through every emotion stuck in his throat. He wipes his eyes hard, pulling away slightly. “I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.”  
“You’re going to be great.” Bellamy latches on to the front of Murphy’s weird little jacket, holding him in place so he won’t simply drift away. “You will be amazing and I know it.”  
Murphy’s eyes are a kaleidoscope of tears, but he grins weakly anyway. Bellamy smiles back, feeling his own tears hit the back of his throat. They lean in so close and bump foreheads, but Bellamy can’t leave it at that, so he throws everything he knows out of his mind and kisses Murphy firmly. They kiss with a salty desperation, tasting Murphy’s tears and the words they will never get to say. Their arms circle around each other; Murphy’s clutching onto the back of Bellamy’s head and Bellamy’s at Murphy’s sides. They kiss, and nothing else could ever matter more, nothing will ever matter more. Their chapped lips mold together, and Bellamy knows that he will never forget how beautiful Murphy looked when they pull apart, his eyes a sharp red against his pale, pale skin and the yearning and distraught sewn throughout his expression. He will be old and gray, but this picture of Murphy, so raw and undisguised with always be in technicolor. Someone whistles cheekily in the distance, but it sounds far away and empty to Bellamy. He searches in the direction of the whistle, the wind stinging at his wet eyes, but Murphy tugs him back to face him.  
“I, um, I brought you something,” he chokes out, his voice weak and thin. He reaches into his backpack and yanks out a thick, wide envelope. The back of it reads “Bellamy the Lifeguard.”  
“Um, open it when you get home, ok?” Bellamy nods slowly, his eyes so blurry with tears. A tinny voice over the loudspeakers orders the passengers to board the train, making it shockingly obvious to Bellamy that this is actually happening. This is real, the concrete is sealing over the situation. Murphy jolts slightly at the announcement, forcing out, “Um. I have to-I have to go. Bellamy, I have to go.” His face twists, holding back a flood so much more. Everything is so fragile, and when they kiss again, it is so fragile as well. And it’s their last kiss. Bellamy can feel it in the way their lips move against the other’s, the way his heart clenches tight into a fist, Murphy’s hand lingering on his coat. He knows so deep down that this is the last everything for them, the climax that is so strangely anticlimactic. Murphy isn’t tugged back, he doesn’t fall to his knees and proclaim his undying love for Bellamy. It’s simply all unspoken touches, broken eye contact, and Murphy walking away like he’s not being fractured and crumbling. Bellamy doesn’t look up until the train has chugged away and he’s alone on the platform. Murphy’s gone again, forever, but this time Bellamy is not fourteen stories above him. He is right in the firing range next to Murphy and he’s exploded and Bellamy feels every single effect. Murphy’s left him with shrapnel-studded skin and a ribcage torn open, allowing everyone to see inside Bellamy but no one left to heal him.

The city looks the same as it always does. Quiet and stagnant from Bellamy’s perch, fourteen stories high. It’s hard to believe that so much life is happening when he looks at it from a distance, that people are out there laughing, fighting, growing, loving. It looks so dead from his view. It’s even colder now, the wind a biting sword at Bellamy’s face and hands. He doesn’t move inside, though. He has no need. The envelope hasn’t left Bellamy’s grip since the train station, but he hasn’t opened it yet. He almost doesn’t want to, as if he’s leaving one last stone unturned, like he’s keeping one little piece of this weekend puzzle for himself. Because Bellamy knows that if he opens this package, the weekend will end. It will be sealed in concrete forever, and Bellamy hates nothing more than unchanging nature of forever. But if he has learned one thing from this lifetime in a weekend, it’s that forever doesn’t exist. People are so complex and ever-growing that forever can’t possibly exist. The world will never stop changing, and no matter how much fucking concrete you put over it, trees will eventually break through. So Bellamy has to open the envelope. He has to, so those trees can be planted and he can maybe put some gay gnomes in this stupid, metaphorical forest he’s going to grow. Murphy would fucking love it. Bellamy rips open the package, jaw clenched but ultimately calm. He almost drops the contents off the ledge when he sees them. It’s the tape recorder, the very one that Murphy held to Bellamy’s face the day before. It is so plain and simple, but it holds such complexity. The world is silent as Bellamy presses play and looks out into the city, ready to finally just listen. _ _  
_ "Um, right. Ok. Uh, I saw you. At the club, The City of Light. I just kinda felt you staring at me? Y’know, and you have a very scary stare."_


End file.
